Debris of Shadows Book I: The Lies of the Sage

by Tony LaRocca

  Debris of Shadows Book I:

  The Lies of the Sage

  * * *

  by Tony LaRocca

  Copyright © 2015 by Tony LaRocca

  Cover and book design by Tony LaRocca

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Printing, January 2015

  www.EgotisticalProductions.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Table of contents

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Chapter 1

  “An empty canvas,” a teacher once said, “is a dark and soulless universe, waiting for a creator’s light to shine upon it.” At that moment, Alyanna Galbraith had realized that art school was not for her. To her, an empty canvas was a miserable, taunting bastard that should be avoided at all costs. Such an unwanted cruelty mocked her from the center of her studio. She paced the room, glancing every now and then at a hologram that shimmered in the air.

  The projection was of a GenPanther prowling through a field, lolling his mangy head from side to side. His name was Bucephalus. Matted, silver fur swung from his lanky frame. His clouded eyes scowled as they darted back and forth. His muscles tightened and relaxed repeatedly, as if remembering slaughters once committed on the savanna. Alyanna smirked. By the relative height of the grass against his legs, she judged Bucephalus to be two feet tall. He had been engineered without claws or fangs, ate a strict diet of reconstructed vegetable protein, and the closest he had ever come to any steaming jungles was when August in New Jersey got humid.

  “Isis,” she said, “owner’s information?”

  “Doctor Alexander Richardson, Emeritus Professor of History, retired,” her computer replied. “Age eighty–seven, has owned GenPet Bucephalus for eleven years, purchased after the death of only son in a transport crash. Form of representation is up to the artist’s discretion.”

  She stopped pacing. For a few seconds, all she could see was the quick blur of the spinning sky, and the ground rushing toward her. She heard her own screams, felt Carmine’s arm pushing against her chest as if it could protect her and their unborn baby, a flash of red, and then darkness.

  She blinked, returning to the present. “Thank you,” she said, and forced herself to concentrate on the problem at hand.

  The trick of winning zhivoi–paint commissions was to deduce the exact way the owner wanted his or her pet to reside. Most owners had their pets’ personalities sanitized before painting them; it was the safe thing to do. But watching the magnificent (if scaled–down and well past its prime) creature stalking some race memory never fulfilled, Alyanna did not think that was what the retired professor wanted.

  She pulled open the doors of a stained cabinet. She reached towards the back, tossing aside brushes and half–empty tubes of paint. Her fingers touched cool, smooth glass, and she breathed a sigh. She grabbed the bottle by its neck, and pulled it out.

  She unscrewed the top, and swallowed a deep slug of whiskey. It burned. She took another gulp. Life was far too short to panic over technical details, she decided. There were things that were more important. Matthew was more important. She took another swig, resolving not to follow that line of thought.

  She returned to her canvas. “Let’s do this,” she said. “Prepare personality.”

  “Parameters?”

  “Unchanged,” said Alyanna. “Wait. Restore peak health, fangs, and claws.”

  There was a pause. “Complete.”

  She closed her eyes. The whiskey made her head feel light, as if the rest of the world were running just a tenth of a second out of sync. Good, she thought. She removed her virtual reality goggles from their velvet–lined case. “Show me Matthew.”

  The image flickered as it switched views. Her son lay on the playroom carpet with his back to the camera, scribbling with crayons on a piece of paper. Her eyes watered.

  It was not fair.

  “Lower the null–rad shield,” she said. A shimmering, metallic curtain descended from the ceiling with a whir, engulfing the studio in total darkness and silence. Even when painting a virtual bid, she made sure to go through the necessary precautions; believing made all the difference. She slid the goggles over her face.

  A three–dimensional reproduction of the studio appeared before her. She wondered what it would be like to enter the simulation naked. She knew a few artists who did, wanting to be nothing but their computer’s shadow of themselves, but the thought of losing herself was too frightening.

  She picked up her stylus and palette. Two virtual containers sat on the table next to her. One represented the zhivoi–paint that would contain Bucephalus’s personality, the other was sterile. She unlocked the first, and dipped her stylus into it. She took a deep breath, turned to the canvas, and like a wound spring suddenly released, slashed the tool across it.

  She scribbled the outline first in quick strokes. Then she formed a three–dimensional model of the beast: a sphere for the head, cylinders for the legs, and boxes for the chest and belly. Once she completed the framework, she detailed his features. She painted his muscles, coiled and ready to spring. His keen fangs glistened. His nostrils flared, picking up the scent of the hunt. She painted his eyes fierce, proud, and narrow, as if driven by the primal mind of a born hunter. She retained the fur’s silver color of its age. That seemed right, somehow, but she restored it to the glossy sheen of its youth.

  She stepped back from the canvas, and appraised her work. She flicked her goggles off, and the world turned black. “Isis,” she said, “flash cycle, now.”

  In the ceiling, ultraviolet lights ignited with a faint hum. The skin on her arms tingled as Isis turned the null–rad off, and bathed the studio in light for three seconds. Once the cycle completed and Isis had darkened the room again, she switched her goggles back on, and examined the result.

  The canvas looked like a film frozen in mid–frame. Bucephalus’s eyes were wide in shock, having witnessed for a brief moment a world he could not comprehend. The strokes of his fur bristled with fear. Artificial intelligence or not, Alyanna felt a pang of sympathy for the confused beast. Simulating real zhivoi–paint, the light had not only brought the consciousness within to life, but also separated it from that of any further painting. She unlocked the sterile can. With controlled, quick strokes, she created a jungle in which the GenPanther could hunt. She painted a swirl of color in the darkness beyond a tangle of vines, smearing it with her stylus.

  When she completed her final stroke, Alyanna fell back, her storm of creative energy spent. She checked her watch. She had been at it for three hours. She removed the goggles, and found herself in darkness.

  “Open the null–rad.”

  The curtain slid back into the dome, illuminating the studio. As its noise–canceling waves subsided, she became aware of a frantic banging on the door. “Mommy?” Matthew called. “Mommy?” The door handle rattled.

  “Isis, unlock the door,” she said. It clicked open, and Matthew ran inside, tears streaming down his face.

  “Mommy, you okay?” he asked.


  “Honey, I’m fine,” she said. She dropped to one knee, and pulled him into her arms.

  “I been knocking and knocking and knocking I so scared—you okay?” He shook, and gasped for air.

  Oh Jesus, she thought, how long has he been out there?

  “I sorry, Matthew sorry—”

  “No,” she said, placing her hands on either side of his face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. You’re a good boy, Mommy’s sorry.” She hugged him, rubbing her nose against his. It’s all right, the voice inside her whispered, just don’t look in his eyes…

  “Mommy, are you painting?” he asked. Alyanna nodded. “I wanna paint too.” He looked at the virtual canvas, and his eyes widened. “Wow,” he said, the tears on his cheeks forgotten.

  She had recreated Bucephalus as a magnificent beast. He stalked back and forth in his imaginary jungle, his painted fangs bared. In the depths of the rainforest, the painted smear rustled the leaves and blades of grass. Bucephalus—terrible, magnificent Bucephalus—would hunt the mysterious entity for all eternity. The GenPanther stared out at the mother and son. He lowered his head, his glistening eyes narrow.

  Matthew leaped back with a startled but delighted laugh as the creature lunged at them. He filled the entire frame, his jagged fangs snapping at the two people in the mysterious world he saw, but could never reach. A flash of color swirled across the canvas as a painted claw attempted to rake them.

  “Damn,” said Alyanna, excitement surging through her, “I’m good. Isis, key into Entertainment Corp.” She lifted Matthew. He felt light, lighter than he should be, and warm. Well, he’s young and excited, she lied to herself, of course he’s warm. “Submit bid for zhivoi–paint commission: name Richardson, code A nine nine, M three five.” She kissed her son as she bounced him in her arms. She ran her fingers through his fine hair, hair that could not quite be called brown or blond. His features were his own, she never could identify their exact roots in either her or Carmine’s lineages. He was simply Matthew, and that was more than enough. His round face smiled at her, his lips pulling back in a grin of tiny teeth. She hugged him close, and spun around with him again.

  “Return,” Isis said. “This Corporation member is not approved for Richardson—A nine nine, M three five submission.”

  Alyanna lifted her head. “What?” she asked.

  “Return. This Corporation member—”

  “All right, shut up.” Her voice rose, her giddy excitement curdling. Matthew clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop that,” she said, pulling his hands away. “I’m not angry with you.” She lowered him to the floor. “Isis,” she said in even, measured tones, spitting out each enunciated syllable, “which Entertainment Corp. registration did you submit it under?”

  “Galbraith, Alyanna, painter division class alpha, circle ninety–nine, member thirty–five.”

  She closed her eyes. She was dimly aware of Matthew clinging to her legs with his feverish arms, his warmth burning through her jeans. “Please submit again,” she said.

  A second passed. “Return. This—”

  “Again.”

  “Return. This—”

  “Again!” she shouted. Matthew yelped, jumping away from her. She felt something tighten within her chest, and turned away. “Go and play,” she said.

  “Mommy, I sorry.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight for a long moment. “Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not mad at you, but I need you to go and play. Now.”

  Her son looked at her. “Don’t be sad,” he said.

  She let out a long, low sigh. She lifted Matthew into her arms, where he clung to her. “What did I do to deserve you?” she asked.

  “Mommy?”

  “Nothing.” She rocked him back and forth. It was four o’clock. She had an hour left before the deadline. She carried him down the stairs from her attic studio to the landing.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s Bananas.”

  Alyanna held up her son to the one zhivoi–painting she owned. It had cost her one million for the paint alone. If she had commissioned it instead of painting it herself, it would have cost twice that amount. I wish I had the paint now, she thought. I wish I hadn’t wasted it on her.

  “Hi, Bananas,” Matthew said. “Hi!”

  The zhivoi–painted dog leaped at hearing her name. She ran to the front of the canvas, and lapped at the surface. Matthew held his hand to it, giggling as the paint squirmed beneath his touch.

  Alyanna looked at her watch. “Come on,” she said, pulling her son away. “I have work to do.”

  “I want to play with Bananas.”

  She thought it over. Why not? she decided. She took the painting, and carried it and her son to the playroom. She laid them on the floor, amidst the toy robots, cars, planes, blocks, and crayons. Matthew stretched, grabbed a coloring book and the nearest crayon, and began to scribble.

  “Hey,” she said, “how about a little clean–up when you’re done?”

  “Okay,” he said, not looking up.

  She watched him draw. His best friend was at his side, and he was at peace with the world. She slipped out the door, and climbed the stairs back to her studio.

  “Isis,” she said, “get me Paul LeCeld, now.”

  The projector in the ceiling came to life with a swirl of light. The glowing logo of The Entertainment Corporation, golden comedy and tragedy masks, spun in three dimensions above the words “Please hold.”

  “Mister LeCeld is unavailable. If you would like to leave a message—”

  “Bullshit,” said Alyanna, “find him.” She paced the parquet floor, counting the passing seconds under her breath.

  “Mister LeCeld has been paged. He has not yet responded.”

  “Call him again,” she said. It was twelve minutes after four. She cursed at herself for waiting until the last day to paint her bid, but she never imagined they would screw her this way. “Isis?”

  “Forgive me, ma’am. Mister LeCeld has been paged. He has not yet—”

  “Listen to me,” Alyanna cut in, her words slow and deliberate. “I want you to ping his office, both lines of his home, his cell, his wife, and his boy–toy simultaneously every two seconds.” She resumed her pacing, checking her watch every few seconds as the minutes crawled by.

  “Hello, Alyanna.”

  She spun to face the projection. Paul sat in a chair in his living room. The silver hair that dangled from one side of his bald head was long and unkempt. He wore sunglasses, and a loose–fitting polyester shirt. His head was tilted to one side, and every few seconds, his right cheek muscle twitched. She realized that he was high. Great, she thought, just great.

  “Paul, why are you hiding from me?” she asked. “Why can’t I submit for the Richardson commission?”

  He faked a cough. He bit his lip before answering. “Well, um, the Corporation has decided that you—I mean, we’ve decided to let…” His voice drifted off. “What I wanted to say is, you’re too public.”

  “Public?”

  “Well, think about it,” he said. “You’re the most popular zhivoi–painter out there, but a lot of schools just sneer at you. They say, ‘Oh, she’s not so good, she’s just popular.’”

  “It’s called being blocked, and making up excuses not to work. Every artist has gone through it, but every working artist knows that it’s all jealous bullshit.”

  “They laugh at you now. You’ve barely been outside your mansion in years.”

  “What does that have to do with me not being allowed to submit?” she asked. “So I’m old, so I’m not fresh. Let Richardson decide for himself.”

  “The E.C. doesn’t want you to represent them in this,” he said. “They decided just before submission opened a few days ago. It’s all about being new. You were new once, now you’re cresting on popularity. It happens, it always happens.”

  “So why not make money off of me while I’m still on top?”

  “Money, money, and I thought you were an artist!” He tr
ied to laugh, but it came out a high–pitched choke. “Oh for Christ’s sake, you’ve had twelve commissions. Let someone else have a chance.”

  “What the hell is this bullshit?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “It’s not bullshit,” said Paul. He folded his flabby arms across his chest. “The board has decided that there are others who deserve a chance. It’s not fair that you get all of the high–paying commissions. Clients hear the name Alyanna Galbraith, and that’s it, they only want you. It’s just not fair to others.”

  “Of course they want me. I’ve proven I can deliver. I have satisfied clients.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Well of course not all of them,” she said in exasperation, “but at least I have a higher percentage than some prissy asshole who’s more interested in politics than art. Why am I even talking to you?”

  “Goodbye, Alyanna,” he said, reaching forward.

  “No, wait,” she said. “Listen, I’ll submit anonymously, all right? Let Richardson decide on the quality of my work.”

  He shook his head. “The board’s made its decision,” he said. He looked to the left and to the right, as if there were spies in his home, then leaned in. “I voted for you, really, I did. But what can I do? Look, here is the one we feel has the most promise.” He made a few taps in the air, and replaced his image with that of a virtual canvas.

  The artist had rendered his bid in a stylistic mish–mash of noir, punk, and cubism. It resembled a collage made from paper cutouts of circles, squares, and triangles. This Bucephalus’s colors were inverted, making his coat dark blue with white spots. A few trapezoids—Aztec pyramids—loomed in the background. The GenPanther had a sly, maniacal grin on his face. He danced in circles the way Bananas did, his head jerking left and right like a demented marionette. Every few seconds, the flow of coarse and grainy images skipped and jittered, like an old film caught in a projector’s spokes.